Give Yourself the Chance
There is nothing quite so sinful as Stagnation. If perfection exists within the Multiverse, it is a foul and vile thing, for to be perfect is to halt in all progress and to be trapped in a never ending cycle which both accomplishes and begins nothing. Perfection is the enemy to life as all living beings know it. It is the enemy to Science and Magick alike, and those who strive for such perfection strive only for their own doom. The Grim Preceptor had not always been Daemon. Once upon a time a great many years ago, she too had been a mere fleshling creature, with blood and bile and a need for basic sustenance and slumber. Even as a mortal being however, she still despised all things stagnant and supposedly perfect. Systems and laws which governed her kin and many others brought her great disappointment, for their content made them slow and fat. She turned her gaze skyward and shouted to her Gods above, “If you are the Sky, o Gods of mine, why do you do nothing!” She cried, “Are you truly a God, or are you merely a falsity?” No matter how she prayed, there was never an answer to be found. In time, the Grim Preceptor came to the conclusion that her Gods were not Gods at all. Whether they were of greatness or not, they were a long ways beyond the cosmos and they cared nothing for a withering planet somewhere within the outermost reaches of the universe. If they too had once been Mortal beings such as she, no longer were they confined to the endless cycle of life and death, and instead had they ascended to sovereignty. Her hatred for both the Gods and her own Kin pushed her further and further from the territory of her Tribe until she had eventually delved into the twisted caverns beneath the bordering mountains. Her discontent for all things which willingly followed Laws and Systems which they had no part of drove the Grim Preceptor into a deep and seething hatred for even the very concept of Gods and death itself. All beings deserved to choose their walk of life and how they would die - if at all. Deep beneath the surface of her world did she compile all knowledge she had of the elemental plane and the magick which one such as herself could manipulate with the proper know-how. The most basic building blocks of creation and all of matter itself could be compelled and twisted; however, she knew not yet how she might bend it so far as to extend her own life and bring herself into a state of faux-immortality. Among the tattered parchments and weather-worn journals she kept hidden away within her buried Library, she compiled a basic makeup of what Life itself was and how it was supported. She knew that the force which fueled life was an energy (or perhaps a substance) given the term of Anima by both her Trollish Kin and even the Elves of the east. Perhaps other races too gave it the same term, though whatever name was given to this metaphysical essence mattered not. What mattered was that this Anima could be siphoned, though the exact process was one unknown to the Grim Preceptor. If she could find the correct method of extracting and taking Anima for herself, she could extend her own lifespan long enough for her to no longer need to do such things, as mayhaps there was a possible path of ascending from Mortality to Immortality. Perhaps she could become a God herself. Such a Grand Vision would need to be placed upon a metaphorical back burner however, as before she could attain such things, the Grim Preceptor would need to first learn the exact process of siphoning from other living beings and applying their Anima unto herself so she might circumvent the natural process of aging which curses all living creatures. She had started first with the insect skittering about within the depths of the system of caves she had claimed as her own. Their own Life and Anima could hardly be considered above a mere flicker, though it yet still existed within them, and as the Preceptor studied them further and drew upon the energy which simmered within their very Souls, she found the process of siphoning to be far easier than what she had first expected. Although the act of Siphoning itself had proven to be a simple enough task, learning to take it herself had proved to be… challenging. Manipulating Magick and Anima in and of itself was something which even adolescent boys and girls could comprehend with enough study; however, never did they think to absorb this Anima unto their own self. Even the Grim Preceptor herself had never conceived such a thing, though during the long nights as she collected essence from any living thing which wandered too close to her clutches, no matter how she twisted, warped, or manipulated this energy, it simply refused to mingle amongst her own. After the weeks became months, she began to wonder if perhaps the reason why she could not take this Anima into herself was because it’s origin - and thus its energy makeup, was for a beastly creature, rather than a Troll such as herself. Perhaps; then, she might have greater success if she instead ventured from her caves and snuck into her home village. Thus far, the Preceptor had not even so much as seen another of her Kin, let alone raised a hand against them since the time of her self-imposed exile. There had always been a sort of loathing for her people; however, it had never crossed her mind to bring them harm - even as a means of furthering herself. If she was going to surpass the mere concept of Mortality as she knew it, then she would have to abandon these imposed moral values. They were for beings who followed a Path set out for them by greater beings, and no longer would the Grim Preceptor let herself be governed by forces outside of her own power. Thus, when the sun finally descended below the horizon and dusk washed over the mountainside, she once again strode into the territory of her Former Kin, unshod soles falling soundlessly against the dirt pathways and luminescent irises skimming her most immediate surroundings for any sign of someone still wandering about after it was time to retire and slumber. Even before she had entered the inner circle of her former village, the Grim Preceptor felt a pair of eyes falling upon her and observing her every movement. There was no hostility to this gaze, only a prying sense of curiosity and perhaps a certain degree of wariness. Dead, white coals remained within the Bone fire circle, and the Preceptor approached its very edges to peer at the barely smoldering logs which had yet to be cleaned out. How utterly lazy… One of her ears perked and she turned her head towards where she had felt the gaze of another prior. Standing near the outermost ring, one of the Tribe’s Wise Women looked to the Grim Preceptor with an expression she could only describe as pity, and perhaps even disappointment. For a long, lingering moment, neither Troll said anything, as the Wise Woman slowly stepped forward to stand on the other side of the dead bonfire. Still she looked unto the Preceptor, and when it was she finally did speak, her tone of voice carried hardly above a whisper. “The Elders have given you the name of Kada’drae.” She murmured with a heavy exhale. “They teach the young children to fear your wickedness, and have warned our hunters from venturing too close to your mountains.” Bemusement settled within the Preceptor’s chest, and she looked unto the Wise Woman with a half-grin which exposed warped fangs. “Despairing Exile, I do suppose half of that name is fitting, though I feel no despair in this journey of mine.” “What you are attempting goes against the very laws of nature, child.” The Wise Woman insisted. Her prior bemusement swiftly twisted into great disdain, and the Preceptor curled her lip back into a snarl. “And what do you know of what I am attempting, Withering Wench?” “I know that you seek to steal the lives of others and grant it to yourself. My position as Wise Woman is not merely for show… It is my duty to divine.” The Grim Preceptor spat onto the ground and continued to bare her fangs to the Wise Woman who dared to interject. “The Laws of Nature demand we follow them, but for what? The Gods care not for our Plights nor does the Sky or the Deep view us as anything more than mere ants!” She proclaimed with a feral hiss. “Should it not be our choice whether we follow these Laws and Rules? We are not slaves to Greater Beings!” “If you continue along this path, you will no longer be a Troll.” The Wise Woman insisted once again with a stiff frown. Her frown was met with a grin from the Preceptor. “You are right about that, Wretch… I will no longer be a Troll. I will become something greater, and I will walk my own path through existence. First, however…” "...I have a theory which needs testing." The Wise Woman rose a single brow as she slid one foot back behind the other. As the Preceptor dug her bare heels into the soil beneath her feet and charged forward, her eyes grew wide and she took a swift step back from the enraged troll. The surface of her flesh rippled with Transformative magick which; as she rounded the firepit, hardened her epidermis into a thin, yet very much toughened layer of flexible obsidian. A harsh swing was thrown in the Wise Woman’s direction, one she narrowly managed to pull herself away from. Although the Wise Women of their tribe possessed uncanny vision unlike any other, they were oft lacking in any form of combative training. She could keep up with the Grim Preceptor’s strikes for a time, but her weathered age would steadily become her downfall, wherein the Preceptor yet still possessed enough youth in her bones to give her the strength and stamina to surpass her former Kin. The warping of her flesh spread from the Preceptor’s arms to her torso and abdomen before it wrapped around her legs, forcing the epidermis to stiffen into a hardened and stone-like state just as she had done with her arms a few moment’s prior. The Wise Woman put a degree of distance between the two Trolls, one which gave the Preceptor ample room to step into a hard angled roundhouse kick. The surface of her obsidian textured foot collided with the Wise Woman’s chest, knocking the wind out of her and forcing her to clutch at her ribs and stumble back even further. Just as the Wise Woman raised her head, pale digits curled into her hair and forced her head downward, where she was met with a knee smashing directly into her nose, shattering the bone and knocking her unto her bottom. She clutched at her face with one hand and around her ribs with the other. Blood trickled from between her fingers and dyed her pale flesh crimson, though no matter how she was battered and bruised, she did not lose the fire in her eyes. The Grim Preceptor narrowed her eyes unto the defeated Troll and tightened her grip upon the Wise Woman’s hair. Leaning in close, she curled her lips back into yet another half-snarl whilst wrinkling her nose at the scent of copper. “What can your Gods do now to save you, Wise Woman?” She spat between twisted lips. “Had they not foretold you of your Fate to die by the hands of one who has surpassed you?” In spite of the blood trickling down the Wise Woman’s face and the grotesque bruises coloring her nose and mouth, she forced and smile which gave sight to her red stained teeth. She too rose her hand to curl her fingers into the Preceptor’s hair and tugged her down so close they could taste each other’s breaths and see the other’s reflection within their eyes. In a fleeting whisper, the Wise Woman murmured into the tapered ear of her former Kin. “Kada’drae… You think yourself to surpass Gods, but it is not the Gods you need to surpass. Nay, you are bound to the Curse of the Deep, and you shall always be enslaved to its will, even when their True Death can no longer enrapture your Soul, you will yet still enforce Order, for this is how you were born and made.” The Preceptor yanked herself back and twisted her posture to slam the top of her foot into a resounding impact against the side of the Wise Woman’s skull, a sickening crack piercing her ears as the troll crumpled into a heap on the ground. “I will never be a slave to other powers again, Wretch!” She nearly screamed into the midnight air, chest rising and falling with haggard breaths as she stared down the collapsed form of the Wise Woman. There was still the theory she needed to test… Kneeling down next to the Wise Woman, the Preceptor pressed two fingers against her throat. Although it was weak, she could still detect a fluttering pulse beneath her skin. Slowly she rose unto her feet and held her hands out before her, palms facing downward and fingers loosely curled. Inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, the Grim Preceptor lowered her eyelids and instead looked unto the world with a Third Eye. Ever flowing energy and life force swirled around and about her. Even the very depths of the soil beneath her feet possessed Anima, though most potently it was within the collapsed form of the Wise Woman. The tips of her fingers twitched and flexed as; slowly, she inhaled once more, though this time it was more than mere breath which filled her lungs. With no shortage of great effort, the Preceptor twisted her wrists until her palms face upwards and she curled her fingers inward whilst drawing her hands close to her torso. In conjunction with these motions and the steady inhalation, the life force coursing through the Wise Woman arose from her crumpled body and drifted about through their air, invisible threads tangling within it and drawing it instead towards the Preceptor. This teal-cyan energy twisted and seethed with great volatility; however, she refused to stumble in her extraction. Her veins pressed against the surface of her skin and her flesh swiftly grew to be pallid and almost deathly as the first tresses of swirling energy at last entered her body from the soon to be former Wise Woman. The moment the first thread pierced her epidermis and flowed into her bloodstream, the rest of it swiftly followed suit with enough force to nearly knock the Preceptor off her feet. Fire erupted within her belly and she very near collapsed unto her knees as her veins pressed harder and harder against her flesh, the imprint of it quite clearly visible as she glanced down to her arms. Pain prickled along the surface of her eyes, and she finally stumbled back as the capillaries beneath and within her sclera burst and filled her optics with nearly boiling blood. The Preceptor’s eyelids shot open and she curled her fingers into her hair upon falling unto her knees, roaring pyres bursting overtop her optics and casting her visage in a seething, ghastly glow of cyan and blue. Although this Anima was not her own and it desperately fought her, she would not relent and fought back against it with even greater force. At once - the pain within her limbs and veins ceased and her arms fell loosely against her sides. Slowly the Preceptor’s head tipped back and her fiery gaze looked skyward, the stars above weeping for her transgression. When twilight arose and dawn reached over the horizons, the Tribe Elders discovered the body of their most beloved Wise Woman. Pray as they might, her Soul did not return to them to give insight into what had transpired during the night. With heavy hearts did the Tribesmen prepare the funeral pyre whilst the women soothed the tears of crying children. There had been suspicions that the Outcasted Witch Kada’drae slipped into the village in the dead of night and murdered the Wise Woman; however, none wished to humor such an idea. If she had managed to destroy the very essence and soul of another living being, then she was one to be feared… Surely such things were not possible, and it was by other means that their Wise Woman met her end and had been robbed of her mortal anima. Over the course of many moons, Wise Women from other tribes too disappeared during the night. If their bodies were discovered, no Soul nor essence of life could be recovered from their corpses… Only the cold and lifeless memories of beloved sisters and mothers. Category:Short Stories